Free Watcher in the Shadows by Geoffrey Household Page B

But he can’t be detained. And he won’t be there in the morning. There’s not a thing the police can do until they have some evidence of a crime.”
    “They can prevent it.”
    “They can indeed. But tonight only. And two months later the detective responsible for me is bluffed by a gentleman of obvious respectability who pretends to be the Inspector of Inland Revenue or a Commissioner of Church Lands and calls at half a dozen houses before mine.”
    “What about the description? Heavy build? Thick, black eyebrows?”
    “He may not have them. I’m doubtful about the eyebrows already. As for the weight — don’t you remember Vasile Mavro and his pneumatic stomach?”
    Ian smiled at last.
    “It took Vasile weeks to learn to walk as if he were really carrying that stomach,” he said. “After all, this fellow hasn’t been trained by us.”
    “Hasn’t he? If he was in Buchenwald or had friends who were, it’s very likely that he was trained by us or some organization nearly as good.”
    “But then he can make rings round any county police!” Ian exclaimed.
    “Round Special Branch, too —provided that his motive is perplexing, and that he is working alone, not for any political organization. Look at it this way! It was you who first brought up the tiger metaphor. Well, imagine he’s an experienced tiger with a taste for man! I gather that the difficulty is to make and keep contact. In fact it can’t be done without tying out a bait. That’s what I am. I have to be, because we don’t know any other which would tempt him. If you or the police refuse to let me hunt him in my own way I shall be killed in his.
    “And here’s one other point! I’d like to talk to the tiger. Suppose I am the last on the list? The murders of Sporn and Dickfuss are nothing. I’d give him a medal for them. If I think he has finished, if I can convince him who and what I really was, I may not hand him over to the police at all.”

    “You have forgotten the postman,” Ian protested.
    “Punishing him is not going to bring the postman back to life. That could remain between the tiger and his God, so long as he doesn’t force us to send him to hospital.”
    It was this argument —the weakest of all —which, I think, persuaded Ian. He had been wavering ever since I suggested the obvious truth that we were dealing with someone who had been a colleague or ally during the war.
    “But you’re not going to sit on that nest or machan of yours if the tiger is examining it right now,” he said.
    “Why not?”
    “Thorns. Didn’t you say you had considered drawing-pins?”
    I assured him that was only panic. No one except a pathologist could do much damage with a surface scratch. And anyway there were no thorns on an alder, so why arouse unnecessary suspicion by putting them there?
    “What time do I get into position?”
    “Let’s say he has finished going over the ground now or half an hour ago. Then he will want a meal, because he didn’t have any lunch. The sooner you are in position the better, but not later than six.”
    The mention of meals at once brought out the regimental officer. Ian reproached himself for not realizing earlier that I had eaten nothing since lunch the day before—in fact I had had plenty, though in bits and pieces — and insisted on bringing back some food before he went to ground with the badgers.
    Since I had to give way on the question of bringing in the police somewhere, we agreed that Ian should telephone his friend, using a vague and deprecating English manner, to the effect that it was just possible that he had come upon the trail of the parcel which blew up the postman, and that he should give a description of the suspect.
    That was sound sense. If the dark gentleman, wounded or not, got away from us after showing his intention, it was a straight police job to hold him for inquiry until Ian could identify him. It was impossible to guess which way he would go, but, since his line of